The Alive
by LoudButStillQuiteDeadly
Summary: Vivianne, the youngest princess of Bellan, is framed with murder. With an entire kingdom on her trail and nothing but an ancient sorcerer for protection, what's a girl to do? Loose interpretation of Snow White.
1. Prologue

**The Alive - by LoudButStillQuiteDeadly**

**A/N: Hi, guys! I'm in love with fairy tales of all types. I've had little ideas brewing in my head every once in a while, but this is the first bit I've ever scribbled down. I've been clinging to it for a while, and I haven't shown it to anyone but a few of my friends. I really want some critiquing - no compliments, no making me feel special. Tell me what you liked, and tell me what you hated. I look forward to it!**

**PS This first little tidbit is written really... I dunno, vaguely. Opaquely. It's more story-time than the rest of the story will be. It's just to get a little glimpse of Vivianne and her personality beforehand, and to basically summarize the first few years of her life. It gets better, I hope!**

**Prologue**

When Vivianne was born, she was quiet.

She bled from her mouth, wide open in a soundless scream. Blood fountained from her round, pale, perfect lips. She was choking on her own life, and without help, she would die. The only screaming came from her mother. Madeline sobbed in despair: after eighteen hours of splitting, cruel, relentless pain, her child was destined to die.

Sorcerers, midwives and apothecaries struggled to staunch the child's bleeding. It was then, when the bleeding ceased and was wiped away with a spell, that the girl cried. Cold, sharp oxygen broke into her tiny lungs. The shock of air, the relief of breath, forced a pathetic whimper to rack her pathetic body. And then she slept.

She was placed in her mother's tired, sagging arms. The woman, the Queen, had already borne two daughters; Vivianne was a last, feeble attempt at producing a male heir. Madeline knew this would be her last child. She could not handle another day like this one - fevered, painful, and overall disappointing. She would die. She was weak.

Vivianne was also weak. Her heartbeat was a tired hummingbird, struggling against the confines of life. She would have cried if she could; but she could not. She could never catch her breath enough to wail away the pain in her tiny chest. A sorcerer, Gideon, stayed by her cradle day and night, forgoing food and sleep so that she wouldn't slip away in the middle of a fit.

When it became apparent that she would not die, but that she would be as strong and pouty as any two-year-old, a sigh of relief was exhaled by all. The girl was not the son that the King and Queen so craved, but she was still a Princess, and that was how she would be treated. She slept in the royal nursery with her older sisters, Marianna and Margaret. She was taught how to walk and talk not by her parents, but by a young, pretty nurse-mary. The ailments of her early youth were soon forgotten, and she grew up to be as pretty, poised, and spoiled as her sisters.

Gideon remained her constant friend. When she was scolded, it was to Gideon that she ran. When she scraped her knee, she relied on his spells to heal her. Sweet, humble Gideon, with the face of a boar and the heart of a lamb, endured her tantrums and petulance with fatherly gusto.

When her mother, frail and weak as she was, became pregnant, it was to Gideon she sobbed. And when Queen Madeline gave birth to a son, Timothy, and died, it was Gideon that she blamed. And then, as Timothy choked on his own life's blood just as she had, and died in his mother's limp arms, it was Gideon that she hated.

For, as close as Vivianne was with Gideon, it was Madeline that she adored. In winter, her mother would sew by the fire and listen to her girls reading fairy tales out loud. During the spring, they danced through the gardens together, skipping in their heavy skirts and plucking flowers from their stems. On hot summer days, the girl would curl up with her mother and sisters in the browning grass like a litter of kittens to a cat. And in fall, when the leaves were brown and the grass crackled underfoot, she would sing to them in her high, clear, sweet voice, of mermaids and fairies and dashing princes.

Vivianne used to look up to her mother. She had loved all of her daughters, no matter how disappointing they were in the fact that they weren't sons. She had loved her husband, too, and had treated the servants with respect.

Vivianne used to think her mother could do anything. But when she died, she left a wound in Vivianne's chest, a wound that hurt as much as the sickness she had as a child. And it was Gideon's fault. He could have saved her mother, would have saved her, if not for the son. The son had been his priority.

But now, Madeline and the infantile Prince were both dead. And it was all Gideon's fault. For the remainder of her childhood, Vivianne hated Gideon with every fiber of her being.

Vivianne had been twelve when her mother died. Now, it seemed as if everything had deserted her. Her mother, her baby brother, Gideon... even her sisters seemed cold and distant.

Her grief could not be channeled into words, for no one would listen. She could not write about her pain for fear someone might see. She wandered about the Palace grounds forlorn and lonely, for the next four years, wearing her hurt like a garment. When she turned sixteen, and saw the withered, destitute gardens that her mother used to care for with such tenderness, she wept. It was then that she shed whatever self pity she kept and poured all of her energy into the gardens, making them lovely once more.

And when they were restored to their former glory, full of life and light, Vivianne sat among the rosebushes and wept some more, wondering why she still felt as lonely as ever.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Chapter two. Voila! Tell me what you think. I've got like eight of these suckers already written down. I'm holding them hostage. Maybe.**

Vivianne sat at the window, watching rain fall into the courtyard below. The sky was dark and dismal, but she did not complain. It rarely rained in Bellan. It would be good for her flowers to drink in the water, to rest their petals against the ferocious sun.

The day would start slow, like a child reluctant to get out of bed. With much prodding, it would awaken by noon. And in the evening, energy would ooze through the air like a heavy perfume. It was Princess Margaret's eighteenth birthday, and there was to be a ball. The rain might slow things a bit, but overall, Vivianne was destined to spend the night trapped in a tight, pinching dress and sustained on nothing but paper-thin slices of birthday cake. Chocolate. She hated chocolate.

Vivianne sighed and stood up, her bones creaking. It wouldn't sit well with Her Highness of Fiery Temper and Hair to be late for breakfast. She walked across her bedroom and tugged on the bell-pull that summoned her chambermaids.

The girls arrived, all three of them, and helped her into her dress. They shoved her into the undergarments, yanking on the laces, and slid the soft green fabric over her white linen and whalebone. Vivianne sat at her vanity and combed out her dark hair, waiting for them to finish making her bed and leave. It took several minutes to sort out the mess of goose-feather pillows and velvet blankets, much to her dismay. When they were gone, she loosened the suffocating laces on her corset and made her way down the narrow, stone-walled staircase.

She reached the Great Hall. The large, hollow chamber was already echoing with courtiers and serving girls. She saw her family seated at the head of the room and was struck, not for the first time, by the wrongness of it all. It was incomplete without her mother. The feeling sat in her stomach like a ball of lead, heavy and unnatural, as she walked towards them.

Margaret sat beaming, rubies on her brow and around her neck. Her bright red hair was piled on top her head, covered by a net and secured with gleaming pins. Her freckled cheeks held roses, and her dress was a dark burgundy; she seemed as vividly red as fire crackling in a hearth.

Marianne sat next to her, much more subdued and meek. Her hair was blond and braided in loops, and her dress was the same shade cornflower blue as her eyes. Her head was tilted towards her food, her face blank, as if she were embarrassed to be seated next to glory incarnate.

Vivianne sat next to Marianne and looked to her father, a dark-haired man with gray at his temples.

"Morning, Sire," she said, inclining her head. "And good morning to you, Marianne." Marianne nodded, and her smile seemed forced.

"Happy birthday, Crown Princess." Vivianne's smile was also forced when she looked to her eldest sister. "May there be many more to come."

Margaret's smile, slow and as false as the gems in a paste bracelet, sent a shiver down her spine. "Thank you, little sister."

The meal passed by in a flurry of 'Please-pass-the's and 'You're-looking-well's. Margaret chattered like a bird, though neither Marianne, Vivianne, nor their father responded with equal enthusiasm.

"Tonight will be most excellent, won't it, Marianne?" Margaret said, sipping at her tea. "I heard Sir Vincent will be here. I'm sure he'd love to dance with you."

Marianne paled. "Do you think so." Her tone was flat at the insult. Sir Vincent was a horribly hairy man who was nearing forty, and he had most embarrassingly taken to sending her flowers.

"I do indeed." Margaret inspected a fingernail. "I suspect he'll be proposing any day. Shame he doesn't like Vivianne, now. It'd be lovely to get her off of the palace grounds once in a while."

"Margaret," Vivianne whispered.

"Ah, yes, but you see, the young Lord Jonathan finds her company most enjoyable. If it weren't for you, Margaret, I suspect they'd already be wed with children." Marianne didn't look up from her plate as she spoke.

No one dared respond to this, not even the King. Lord Johnathan had been courting Margaret for months, and was suspected to propose soon, perhaps even at the ball that night. But Margaret could not deny that what Marianne said was true: the man had been making eyes at Vivianne for the majority of their courtship. Vivianne did not enjoy it as much as one might think: she felt like candy on display when the man's gaze skimmed over her. It left a taste in her mouth as bitter and unwelcome as medicine.

"Watch your tone, little sister," Margaret seethed.

"Girls," the King said. "If you are to be treated like ladies, then you must act as such."

"Marianne," Vivianne said.

"Marianne!" Margaret exclaimed, brow wrinkled in a deep frown.

"Margaret!" said the King. "Silence, all of you."

For the rest of the meal, no one said a word.

Vivianne sighed deeply when it was over, rising to allow a servant to pull her chair back. She smoothed out her pale green skirts and left for her room.

She reached the walnut door and stepped inside. Her room was a cheery place; the floors were dark, but the walls were the color of the sky in spring. She sat at the window again, this time with a book in her lap.

The poems she read were washed out and old. She had read them many times before, each time hoping that the words would suddenly become beautiful and sweet. They never did. They were old, ugly, but they fit like her favorite boots with their sameness.

She sat still for the remainder of the morning, alternating between her book and watching the courtiers duck under the eaves in order to escape the rain. She pressed the flat of her hand against the cold glass window. It fogged under her touch and set her hand print upon its surface like a stain. She smeared it away and gazed out once more.

A knock at her door around noon startled her. "Come in," she called from her perch.

Marianne opened the door, stepping through with her head bowed. "Vivianne," she said quietly.

"Sister." Vivianne stood.

Rarely was she visited by either of her sisters. After her mother's death, the girls had drifted from being the best of friends to near strangers. The only words they shared were snide comments and shallow pleasantries. Vivianne supposed that Marianne was much kinder than Margaret, but not in a way that made her likable. It was as if she were afraid to say anything nasty for fear that the words would singe her tongue and bite at her ankles.

"Vivianne, I just wanted to say that..." Marianne looked up briefly, but her eyes quickly flashed back at her feet. Vivianne was reminded of a beaten dog. "I wanted to say that, I hate Margaret."

Vivianne didn't know how to respond. Her silence had an ill effect upon her sister.

"Say something," Marianne urged.

"Well... I... I understand." Vivianne swallowed past the lump in her throat.

"I don't want to marry Sir Vincent."

"I don't see why you would." Vivianne looked at the ceiling. "Or should, for that matter."

"I feel years too young to marry anybody, Vivianne," Marianne whispered.

"You are."

"But I don't want to be alone."

"You aren't." Vivianne closed the gap between them, aching to ease her worry, afraid to scare her away. She had missed her angel of a sister, blond and blue-eyed and a bit chubby, and did not want her to be afraid.

Marianne collapsed into her arms, shaking in her efforts not to cry. "I also wanted to say that, I'm sorry, it's not fair that Margaret should be queen, she's so cruel to you, and to me, and the servants, and I don't want to see what she would do to the kingdom." She shuddered. "And I want to be married off far away, maybe to Yelice's prince, but you're going. And I don't want you to go. And I don't want to stay."

Vivianne's shoulders tensed. She had not heard that particular rumor. "Who said that?" she asked. "I'm not being married off to anyone."

"Yes you are," Marianne said. She stood straight and dug her palm into a watery eye. "Father said so."

"What?"

Vivianne saw stars. She shook her head quickly and found her way to a chair before she could collapse.

"You didn't know?" Marianne said, drawing near.

"Go away," Vivianne whispered.

"Vivianne, I-"

"I said, go away." Marianne's hands fluttered at her shoulders. Vivianne slapped them away. "Get out."

Marianne stood bolt upright. "Fine." She paced out of the room, taking her solace with her and leaving a dreadful silence behind.

Vivianne could not think of what to do. Holding her tears at bay, she strode out of her room, slamming every door in her wake until she reached her father's study.

After she gained entry from the guards, she stood in front of his desk, unsure what to say.

"Hello, Vivianne," he said, not looking up from his papers.

"Father," Vivianne said, sweeping a deep, mocking curtsy that he did not look up to see. "Father, Marianne told me something."

At the tremble in her voice, the King looked up, studying the lip that pouted out like a child's. "What did you hear, daughter?"

"Father, she said that I was to be married off to Yelice."

"Nonsense," the King said, waving the thought away as though it were an irritating fly. "I can't imagine why she would make that up, but then again, her imagination is so like her mother's." He sighed, sliding off his crown and ruffling the unruly mane that it held in place. "No, you aren't to be married off to anyone."

"Thank God," Vivianne whispered. She collapsed, most unladylike, into the receiving chair.

"Why does such a thought bother you?" he asked, returning to his papers.

"I don't want to go anywhere," she said as she fiddled with a quill on his desk.

"Then you won't." The King looked up. "Is that all you needed?"

"Yes, your Majesty," she said.

"Off with you."

"Yes," she repeated, sweeping a curtsy once more.

Vivianne stood outside of his door and stared at the ground. The two sentries completely slipped her mind. Why would Marianne lie to her about that, with no discernible reason? It occurred to her that she was standing between two strange men. She began walking down the corridor, trying to make the muddled mess in her head make sense.

The only reason Marianne would do that, she decided, was because of Margaret. Margaret had to have told her to make that story up; Marianne was in no way scheming, and she was hardly bright enough to think up such a tale on her own.

As Vivianne entered her personal privy to bathe, she decided that she would find out what Margaret intended, even if it displeased Her Majesty.


	3. Chapter 2

Vivianne stood in front of her mirror. She pressed a lavender colored dress to her chest, brow wrinkled and lips puckered. It was from her fourteenth birthday, and therefore two years out of style. It had been altered in the past week to accommodate the height, hips, and chest that had chased her out of adolescence. It was beautiful, and it would fit, but she did not want Margaret to recognize and insult the frock that was, in essence, the end of her childhood. And old.

She rolled her eyes at herself and rang the waiting women into her room. The ladies crowded around her, cooing hollow compliments. They ran their hands through her hair in the same manner they would inspect skeins of silk: a bit awed, a bit envious.

Vivianne requested that they help her into the dress, and they complied. The bodice, though it had been let out, still squeezed at her as if it had been melted into her flesh. The waiting women were gasping as roughly as she was in their efforts to tie off the laces.

When the dress was secure, Vivianne's chest felt as heavy as a sack of grain. She could not help noticing, though, that it rose and fell most ridiculously with every breath she managed to swallow.

"They said it would fit," she said in a way of apology to the waiting women.

"Oh, no, Princess, it fits fine," one of the younger women said, hands on her hips and head tilted, surveying her in a way that made Vivianne feel like a hen at market.

"Thank you, ladies," Vivianne said. She wiped her palms on the heavy silk skirt. "I think I'll take it from here."

"Oh, no, milady! We still have to sort out your hair!"

Vivianne let herself grown inwardly as they attacked her with hairbrushes and pins.

When she was finally able to shoo them out, she undid all of their curls and braids, letting her locks tumble across her shoulders and down her back like a spill of shining oil. If her body was to be bound, then her hair would be as free as air, she decided.

She looked out her window. The sun was setting, and dusk was painted a color as purple as her dress. The courtyard was empty; all of the servants were preparing the ballroom, and the courtiers were squeezing into their dresses. Margaret had intended for her birthday to be an extravagent affair, and everyone was all too eager to please.

Vivianne put on her slippers and tiara. She adjusted her corset one more time, afraid of fainting on the dance floor, and descended the stairs.

The ballroom wasn't swooning with violins and swirling cloth just yet. It was, though, bustling with servants, harried by the deadline of eight o'clock and insulted by tableclothes that clashed with Margaret's dress.

The princess stood shouting at a poor, trembling, pitiful maid who had been setting up crooked candlesticks. Vivianne's face wrinkled in sympathy with the girl that had to have been no more than thirteen years old.

Her gaze raked across the ballroom. The floors were a light, pale wood, strewn with the petals of sweet-smelling flowers. Tables lined the white walls, cloaked by white tableclothes that had been used to replace the red. They were all adorned with food, trays that varied from suckling pigs to apple tarts as tiny as Vivianne's little finger.

Her father's throne sat at the head of the room, raised on a dais and as majestic as a resting lion. Beside it was her mother's throne, smaller in comparison but quite regal on its own. The same throne, studded with ruby and opal, would become Margaret's at midnight.

The ball, though it was a birthday celebration, would double as a coronation party. Margaret would become Queen of Bellan. The King would still be King, but only in part. That tiny sliver of leadership, the piece that would become Margaret's gleaming crown, was miniscule; but it was enough. It was enough to make his speeches useless gab; it was enough to make his decrees the senile murmurings of an old man. He was not old, not nearly, but having his teenage daughter at his side would make him seem as if he were a part of the mountains: ancient and craggy, pleasant to look at, but nothing more than a nuisance that made travel difficult. At least, that was how his people would see him when Margaret took the throne. Politically, legally, he would still hold Bellan in his name. But it wasn't politics that mattered. It was Margaret. It had always been Margaret.

From her birth up, the people had seen Margaret as a beautiful bundle of red curls. She was Bellan's joy, and the peasants celebrated the news of her first words, her first steps, as they would celebrate their own children's. It was only the nurse-maries that witnessed her tantrums, her petty fits, the rages that colored her face an unsightly shade of purple; it was the nurse-maries who quit due to her incessant, violent outbreaks.

As Margaret grew, she shed her temper as one would shed a cloak that had grown too small. She became a docile, demure shadow of herself, whipped into submission by the flat of her mother's annoyed hand. Still, even at eighteen, she would slip back into that cloak and become a squealing, squalling imitation of a princess. The people did not witness her arrogant, absurd frenzies. They only saw her pretty face, her pretty little gloved hand, waving prettily and curtsying prettily at everyone she met.

The King would become her plaything. Margaret would not change. No, she would remain a child. The only difference would be that she held Bellan underfoot along with her family.

Vivianne shuddered. She walked to the dais where her father sat, dressed merrily for the occasion in a blue coat and tan breeches. His face was shrouded. He knew as well as Vivianne did that tonight would be his last, true night of leadership.

"Father," Vivianne said, curtsying as deeply as she could for show. He nodded. She approached, kissing his hand and then, more tenderly, his cheek.

"My daughter. How beautiful you are. Your mother ought to be here, she'd be so proud of all three of you." The King's eyes were wet. They spoke of a love long dead, a son never held, three disappointing daughters. But he persisted in loving, in living, where one weaker than he would have abandoned the ruse. The ruse that he could possibly love such dreadful reminders. Margaret's red hair; Marianne's plumpness; Vivianne's gray eyes... they all spoke of the mother that could not bear a son.

"She'd be proud of you, too," Vivianne whispered. She patted his shoulder and stood at his side, hands folded in front of her. She was to stand by her father as he greeted guests, nodding and smiling and giggling as if she had not a thought in her pretty little head.

She watched Marianne enter the room, clad in a garment as butter yellow as her hair. She watched her kiss her father's hand, forgoing a curtsy and completely forgetting to love him. She stood on his opposite side, head bowed, accentuating the double chin that Vivianne only noticed because of her annoyance.

It scratched at her insides: why had Marianne made up that tale?

The clock struck eight. Margaret rushed to stand in front of her throne, sweat dappling her brow. She wiped it hastily with a handkercheif and ignored her family, opting instead to greet the guests that were being announced by title. The orchestra hefted up their violins, playing a song that bounced off of the flickering chandelier and candlelight.

And thus began the night.

It took quite a while to announce and greet all of the guests, dolled up in their finest for Her Majesty's birthday. They looked like a flock of feathered birds, bursting with obscene colors and fabrics far too bright for Vivianne's taste. The ladies' skirts flounced like circus tents, and they preened and fussed like children. Their husbands and beaux were only slightly better with their flamboyant waistcoats.

She curtsied for each Lord This and Lady That, although her presence was reciprocated with nothing but meaningless curtsies and bows. It was with the King that they held rushed, whispered, intimate conversations; it was Margaret that they complimented and coddled. Even Marianne was treated with more decency. She was of marriagable age, after all, and many a simpering Lady spoke of dashing, handsome young sons.

Vivianne was cast aside, an afterthought. She said not a single word to the masses that converged before her, and not a single one of them spoke to her.

"Smile," Margaret hissed at her, a red-haired snake.

Vivianne stretched her face into a mocking grimace.

Marianne snickered, and with a cough from their father, the girls resumed their demure, reserved masks. Vivianne forced herself to grin, and her face felt contorted.

The orchestra struck up a cheery waltz, and the Lords took up their Ladies in their arms. They whirled about the room, dizzying Vivianne and making her chest ache to join the dance, to feel her skirt brush up against another's, to feel hands firm against her waist that would keep her from slinging across the room in a blur of lilac silk.

The line of guests was thinning out. Aside from a few straggling in, late and sprinkled with rain, they were almost done. Soon, Marianne was picked off by Sir Vincent, delivered to the dance floor with a hastily disguised scowl.

Vivianne stared straight ahead as a familiar, dark-haired figure approached her.

"Princess Vivianne," Lord Jonathan said, sweeping a bow and kissing her hand. "You're a lovely sight tonight."

Vivianne curtsied, trying to appear gracious. "Perhaps you should go see Margaret," she said, lowering her eyes. "It is her birthday, after all, not mine."

"Perhaps," Lord Jonathan said. "Then again, perhaps I don't want to see Princes Margaret."

Vivianne's gaze flickered towards her sister, who was staring at the floor, ears red.

_You idiot,_ Vivianne thought. _She'll have your head._

"Perhaps you ought to," she urged. She looked up at him, finally seeing the face that was excruciatingly handsome. And positively ravenous. He took in Vivianne's face as if he were a man starved, and she were a feast.

"At last, those pretty gray eyes deign to look upon me." Lord Jonathen grinned.

Vivianne's features melted into a much-practiced expression, designed to absorb pity. "Please," she said quietly. "Talk to Margaret."

Something in Vivianne's face must have resonated with Lord Jonathen. "Very well. But save a dance for me, Princess." He kissed her hand again and stepped to Margaret.

Her sister transformed into a lady as he approached, as delicate as a butterfly, as harmless as a dove. He took her to the dance floor, but not before she glanced over her shoulder at Vivianne. Her face spoke of pure hatred.

Vivianne felt herself crumbling.

"You did well, daughter," the King whispered to her.

She looked at her father, smiling up at her in the same way Jonathen had: he was a starved man, and she was a feast. But a tenderness lingered about his thin lips and wide eyes, so unlike Jonathen it hurt. His was a smile of love. Jonathen's was a smile of wanting.

Vivianne reached for his hand and stood by his side, eyes watering. If anyone should love her like her father loved her mother, she would be a happy girl indeed.

It was some time before anyone asked her to dance. As the youngest, her fortune would be the least; at this particular party, the royal treasury seemed to be on everyone's mind. As the night progressed, though, Vivianne was rescued from a night of boredly tapping her feet by the son of a duke, a youth who was just growing into his lanky height.

He did not know how to dance. Vivianne's heavy skirts protected her toes from his dangerously chaotic footsteps, but they did not prevent him from misplacing his hands - though that may have been on purpose - and careening into other couples. She felt quite thoroughly bruised by the time the violins paused in their music, signaling the end of that particular endeavor.

"Charmed," she said as he fell upon her hand with a sloppy kiss.

Now that she was no longer on the dais, it was easier to get a partner. Many of the men were already drunk, grabbing at the first female in sight. She was quickly snatched up by a dancer much better than the previous, though he was impossibly tall, making it quite an effort to grasp his shoulders.

Conversations consisted of Vivianne's various partners talking about themselves, and Vivianne giggling and laughing most charmingly. She played the part of princess very well, and the only thing remarkable about her in those moments was the shock of black hair she let fly freely. She allowed her mind to wander, to think about silly things, funny things, delightful things, bad things. She focused on the sensation of moving, falling into her steps like clockwork, performing the patterns she knew by heart. For a majority of the dances, she really was as mindless as she pretended to be.

Once or twice, her partners proved to be handsome, interesting, or both. It was for them that she stopped giggling. She would reel in the mess that was her mind, forget the beautiful cacophony of the swirling, clashing gowns. This one was a Duke, here with his wife. And then she would forget herself again. The other one was Sir Vaughn, and he was unattached, but proved to be a horrible conversationalist. They piled up, nameless and as undesirable as the rest of them.

She barely paused to think about how shallow she was as she let her head tip back in bliss at the senseless spinning. Dancing was a madness, but there was a straight line of method behind it.

Eventually, her feet grew sore. Her legs burned, and her throat caught with thirst. Between dances, she would sip at the glasses of champagne the servants patrolled with. She skipped a whole procession of songs when she sat down with her dinner.

The night dragged out. It seemed as if Margaret would never be Queen, would never give a speech, would never let her go to bed.

But the clock struck twelve, echoing through the room, quivering the wine in the glasses.

The orchestra stopped, the absence of their song like the hole left from a tooth: strange, foreign, wrong. The guests stopped their fun and turned towards the dais.

Margaret stood shoulder to shoulder with her father, the two of them raised above the head of even the tall man Vivianne had danced with. Eyes searched for the two who would soon be King and Queen together. Little gasps and squeals echoed through the room as people nudged others out of their way. The King began speaking.

"My brethren," he boomed across the room, sonorous tones echoing through the cavernous room. "Tonight, I address you not as your king. I address you as a brother. A father. An uncle. I address you as my friends.

"I have ruled over you all for much of my life, and I enjoyed it. I will, someday, miss it. I have grown old during my rein. My daughter has grown into a woman. Tonight, she will take the first steps into my place. Someday, she will take the whole of Bellan onto her shoulders, and I will not be there to assist. She is young, but Princess Margaret is strong and capable. She will rule over us all someday as a noble, gracious Queen. She begins her journey tonight."

It was a short speech, but it was enough. The King was much loved, and to hear him talk to casually of his iminent death was enough to wrench tears from his daughters' eyes. But not Margaret. She stood next to him, absorbing every word and caressing them like lovers. The look on her face was one of euphoria. She would be queen in a matter of minutes.

The coronation proceeded. The King and his daughter stood before the congregation of guests as equals. It was the last night Vivianne saw her father alive.


	4. Chapter 3

Vivianne went to bed before all of the guests had left, trudging up the stairs with feet of lead. She forced her door open and stepped inside, ringing for the waiting women.

They weren't quite so chatty in the middle of the night; they were tired and drawn, and reluctant to be dragged away from the party. They expressed mild distaste at her loose hair and helped her out of her dress. One of them turned down her covers, and the other stoked a fire. Vivianne dismissed them and crawled into bed, a sharp ache in her chest panging with the new knowledge that Margaret was Queen.

It took her a long while to fall asleep. When darkness finally claimed her with feathery, warm fingers, she did not dream.

It was not quite morning when she was shaken awake by a maid.

"Princess!" the maid hissed.

"What?" she asked sharply, sliding out of bed with a clarity that was uncommon for her in these early hours. Something in the maid's tone troubled her, and for a moment she feared there was a fire.

"Princess - I mean, Queen - Queen Margaret wants to see you," the maid said, stumbling over her words as if they were tables in a cluttered room. "She said it's dreadful important."

"Is she in her room?" Vivianne said, smoothing out her white nightgown. With a nod from the wild-eyed maid, she raced to Margaret's chambers.

Margaret's room was a long way from her own, up two flights of stairs and around several twisting corridors. When she reached the doors, flanked by two sentries, she nodded at the men and flung open the heavy walnut entrance.

Not for the first time, Vivianne was disturbed by the extravagance of Margaret's room. The walls seemed miles apart; the floor was an ocean disturbed by nothing but small islands of furniture. Tapestries hung along the walls, depicting maidens in a forest and men returning from a hunt, with tassles dancing against the floor. Rugs were slung about in a fashion that seemed almost uncoordinated. A milky white stone floor peeked out from between them. Book cases lined the walls, stocked with glass figurines, jars of perfume, and very, very few books. A fireplace sat squatly at the front of the room, across from a huge, rumpled bed. Lounging in a green chair, Vivianne's sister nursed a goblet of wine, weeping.

It was disconcerting, to say the least. Margaret rarely cried, and when she did, it was in spoiled anger. Vivianne checked to see if her eyes deceived her, but no, there sat proof. A sniveling girl with red cheeks and a runny nose, gasping frequently as if every time she blinked, she was newly startled to find herself surrounded by such elegance.

Without thinking, Vivianne rushed to her sister's side. The heavy crown sat lopsided in her burnished hair, and wine was thick and sweet on her breath. Vivianne knelt and grabbed the unoccupied, freckled little hand that dangled at Margaret's side.

"What is it, sister?" Vivianne asked, smoothing her thumb over the hand's pale surface. She was internally horrified: kneeling on the floor to her sister, her cruel, weeping sister, as if she cared. She did not care a crumb if her sister cried. She did not know why she was bending over her hand, though, or why she tried to comfort her. She only knew that she did not want to stop.

"Vivianne," Margaret said. And she dropped the wine with a splash of purple juice that soaked Vivianne's nightgown.

"Oh," she said, looking at her chest with a puzzled expression. Wine bloomed against the white linen like a stain of blood.

"I'm sorry," Margaret said dully, examining her younger sister's face.

"I hate to be rude, but is there any reason in particular you called me here?" Vivianne asked. She allowed a string of annoyance to creep into her otherwise toneless voice.

"I made a mistake," Margaret said. Her hands were shaking, and Vivianne realized that might have been why she had dropped the goblet.

"What did you do?" she whispered harshly. Something in Margaret's eyes, in her face, made Vivianne's middle sore.

"I made a mistake, sister, and I've blamed it on you." Margaret sighed, voice wavering like a blade of grass in the wind. "Nevermind. _This_ was my only mistake. Go to your chambers."

Vivianne didn't move. She still clutched at her sister's hand.

"Go!" Margaret snarled. She yanked her hand away and brushed at the tears that still fell.

Vivivanne stood. She frowned at her sister, who glared at her with an uncommon ferocity, even for Margaret. The glare hurt Vivianne; she knew that, behind that glare, was incredible suffering.

"As you wish," Vivianne said. She curtsied deeply, a curtsy reserved only for royalty far above her station, and crept out of the door.

The sentries' faces remained blank, but she crossed her arms over her purple chest in embarrassment. She realized how silly it was, to burst out of her room and run like a woman possessed, in nothing but her night clothes. She stumbled back to her room, tired and sticky and shamed.

She looked at the sky out of her window. It was already light, with a smear of gold tainting the murky purple. Without further excuse to keep sleeping, she rang for her maids to dress her.

When she was clothed and her bed was made, she left her room, setting out for the gardens. They were shoved behind the palace, bursting with life and speckled with fountains, benches, and paths. The roses and lillies were beckoning with their beauty and fragrance, as well as all of the other flowers, but not many servants strolled the tempting walkway. The gardens, in all of their spring beauty, seemed almost haunted without the dead Queen to sing the flowers awake.

Vivianne walked slowly down the dusty cobblestone paths, taking a route she knew well. It would lead her over a small foot bridge and into the garden shed, where a water pump snaked into the ground. She would fill a pail and sprinkle the water over her flowers, tenderly caring for them as if they were her own children.

She reached the shed, a small tin building surrounded on all sides with tall hedges. She opened the flimsy door, banging it against a stack of pots, and picked up a watering pail. Her muscles stretched with effort in a way that was incredibly, refreshingly pleasant as she pumped the handle on the well. The bucket filled, sides dripping where the wooden slats did not quite fit together. With one hand, she lifted it, and with the other, she tilted its bottom so that it spilled over her azeleas.

She began humming to herself with her mindless work: pump, fill, pick up, tilt, pump. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel her mother standing close by, her hums melting with Vivianne's own. A smell different from the flowers would waft when she closed her eyes. It was a familiar, soft smell, warm and welcome.

She blinked her eyes open and realized she was crying.

She wiped her face with her sleeve, sniffed once, and resumed watering. What senselessness, to cry over someone who had been dead for almost five years.

The sun was rising overhead, and its subtle heat radiated over Vivianne's skin. She dipped her hands in the water and smoothed them over the back of her neck, cooling herself. It dripped over her shoulders and down her bodice, making her shiver.

She watered well into the morning, her hair disheveled, palms damp. It was then that the bell rang.

The bell in the palace's church steeple was used for a multitude of reasons, and usually it had coded messages in the number of times it rang. It rang for births; it rang for deaths; it rang for weddings; it rang for war. It rang on Sundays when church started and ended. It rang for holidays and festivals. It never rang without reason.

Vivianne's fingertips numbed. No one had gotten married, and it was Saturday. As far as she knew, Bellan was in very good relations with its neighbors.

The first toll was followed by four more. It meant death.

Vivianne's heart stopped. She knew what was wrong even before the next three rings confirmed it.

Death. The King.

The King was dead.

After a pause, two more loud, clear notes: a criminal was on the grounds.

The murderer was still there.

She stifled a gasp and held her tears at bay. Margaret. Margaret did it.

And she had told her, not in so many words, that Vivianne was to be blamed.

Vivianne ran, kicking the pail and nearly slipping in the puddle of water in the process. She had to run. The King was dead. No one would protect her, not if they thought she was the murderer - and she knew very well what they thought already. Margaret was their prize, and Vivianne was an afterthought. An extra. She was no crown jewel, and no one would trust her.

She heard a clattering of footsteps and heavy armor behind her. Guards. She turned a corner, losing herself in a maze of hedges, gasping for breath, and ducked into the shoulder-high bushes. She felt her skirts snag against the grasping twigs as she fought to get to the other side, where she knew there would be refuge, in a sense. The stables.

She plowed through her carefully cultivated gardenias, the blooms ripping from the bush, and emerged to face a thriving courtyard. Stable hands went about their business, shoeing horses tied to pickets and excercizing them in round pens. The air smelled of dirt and refuse. On the other side of the bushes, she heard the shout of guards and the clanging of footsteps as they chased after a princess that was not there.

Not many people had seen her burst out of the bushes, gasping and holding back her tears. They were, for the most part, going their chores as if nothing was wrong. The King was dead, but they had Queen Margaret to listen to now, didn't they?

There were others, though, who stood shocked senseless. Their eyes stared wide at the floor, seeing nothing, and spilling tears into the dust. Someone wailed. Margaret yearned to join them.

Ignoring her emotions for the moment, she walked to the stables, trying to appear calm and collected, as if she belonged. As if she were not suspected of murder.

She walked down the musty aisle. A horse, tall and white, was tied in the hall, prepared to be groomed. She untied the knotted ropes, tugging mercilessly, her fingers beginning to tear. She grabbed the nearest saddle. It was a bit big on the horse, the stirrups somewhat long, but it would have to do.

She fit the bit into the horse's mouth, avoiding the wide, yellow teeth, and mounted.

"Oh, God," gasped one serving maid. Vivianne's heartbeat went awry, and then, before she could be seized, she kicked the horse into a trot.

She weaved around the servants, careful to trample no one, although they made it a difficult task. Many a stable hand threw themselves in front of the mare in an attempt to impede her escape. The horse worked with her, though; she had chosen one of good temperment, one that was loathe to stomp her masters to the ground.

Soon, Vivianne, with her long, black hair streaming behind her, rode away on the now galloping horse. She craned her neck, looking for a way off the palace grounds. She saw the pastures, where cows and sheep grazed, and an idea struck her. She would jump the fence and ride into the farm lands. From there, she hoped to seek refuge.

And then she realized: she could never return to the Palace again. Running would, undoubtedly, make her look guilty. She cursed her stupidity and spurred her horse faster, clinging to the smooth white coat.

She was approaching the first fence. She hugged the horse's body, squeezing her legs around its middle, and felt the jerk of taking off, the freedom of flight, and the hard impact of landing. The horse kicked up dirt with her heels. Vivianne panted. She rarely rode horses; in fact, she was almost scared of them. This horse, though, with her hide white as snow, was her only hope.

The mare charged towards the middle of a flock of sheep. Their shepherd stood off to the side, shouting at her, trying to keep his sheep together. A dog, with long, coarse hair, began to chase the horse.

The horse whinneyed and slowed, but did not stop. The dog nipped at her heels, barking and dancing to the side. Finally, to Vivianne's great relief, the horse kicked out a well-placed hoof and shook him away. There was a whimper, and the dog fell back, nursing itself.

Vivianne was halfway across the field when a goodly number of guards started following her.

She looked over her shoulder, horrified, and leaned back to her horse.

"Please," she whispered into its big, silky white ear. "All of the carrots in the world, if you run faster than that black one over there." She swallowed. That horse had been her father's. That a guard should be riding it filled her with anger.

Wind tickled her face, whipped her skirts around her legs. She closed her eyes against its sting and clutched the reins, afraid of falling and afraid of being pierced by an arrow.

When she opened them, she was at the second fence. She braced herself and grunted as her horse leaped, clearing the fence without a problem.

There was, however, a different problem. The pasture was a lush area of ankle-deep grass and not many obstacles. Fenced off from the field, though, and just barely contained, was a forest. There wasn't much brush; the broad, heavy trees blocked out the sun to plants living on the ground. But the trees clustered together like gossiping women in some places; in others, they avoided each other as if they were strangers. It would be difficult to steer her steed through them.

She didn't allow the mare to slow, though. To slow down would mean capture. She didn't know what Margaret meant to do to her, and she did not want to find out.

Branches and twigs snagged at her skirt. She kept her head low, avoiding branches that threatened to decapitate her. The horse lept over a fallen log. The saddle rattled dangerously; her heart was in her throat. It began to tilt, but not enough to fall. She righted herself, afraid of startling the beast, and carried on.

Her horse seemed as if it knew where to go. This forest was frequented by stable hands seeking to excercize their animals, and Vivianne supposed the white mount had traveled here before.

The terrain became rougher. Hills swelled, and the soil was sprinkled with rocks. Stones flew up and scraped against the horse's hooves, pelted Vivianne's legs. She winced.

The sound of the guards was never far off.

She prayed.

The saddle slid, and this time, she couldn't bring it straight. She sat crookedly and hoped for a miracle. With a toss of her dark hair, she peered over her shoulder.

Vivianne was puzzled. There was only one guard still following her, the one that had stolen her father's horse. He wore a dark cloak over his armor, a cloak trimmed with red. The colors of a sorcerer.

She yanked on her reins, stopping the horse midstep. She turned her around, heart light, and raced towards the man.

"Gideon?" she called, voice trembling.

"It's me," he called back in his coarse voice, like sand and rocks and rough wind.

A smile broke out on her face. Gideon loved her, no matter what. He would help her. She looked to the sorcerer. He was tall and spare, hooked over like a flower with petals too heavy for its stem. He had been old for as long as Vivianne could remember; his hair was white and thin, lank with the effort of holding itself to his head. He had eyes that were too small and too close together, with great horsey teeth and sallow skin that wrinkled in heavy folds.

She stopped her horse and swung off, the saddle sliding completely to the side. She stumbled and the horse stamped the ground, annoyed.

Gidoen dismounted and walked towards her, wary. "Princess, your father-" he began.

"It wasn't me!" she cried. She fell into his arms, holding her tears at bay, and hugged him. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry I was so cruel to you, I didn't kill him, I swear." She wiped her eyes. "It was Margaret."

Gideon's crooked eyebrows shot up. "Are you certain?"

Vivianne frowned. "She... she called me into her room this morning, very early, and said she had made a mistake. That she had blamed it on me. But she wouldn't tell me what, and she ordered me to leave." Vivianne paused. "I think she was drunk. And... she was crying."

"That is very unlike her," Gideon said. He released Vivianne and rubbed his sparsely-haired chin. "If we were to take you back to the palace-" he paused, seeing her horrified expression. "If," he repeated. "That would not be enough evidence against her. And then there's the fact that you ran away." He looked at her skeptically. "Whether or not you are guilty, running away was not very wise, Princess."

"And it's too late to go back, isn't it?" she asked quietly. She looked down at her feet, feeling quite like a child and nothing like princess, the name he kept calling her. It almost stung in its falsity.

Gideon's voice softened as he spoke. "It is." He put his hands on Vivianne's shoulders. "I can promise you, though," he said, "that I will clear your name."

Vivianne smiled at his words, his impossible, lovable, comforting words. She peered up into his ugly, ancient face. That face had been like a father to her for her entire childhood. "Thank you," she said. "I was thinking," she said, and clasped her hands in front of her. "I wondered if I should go to the farmlands, and seek shelter with some widow while I... waited."

Gideon frowned and removed his hands from her shoulders. He continued rubbing his chin. "No. Margaret has a price on your head already. You would be turned in as soon as someone found out who you are."

Vivianne sighed. "Where should I go?" she asked, hugging herself. "Where could I hide?"

He waved a hand and plucked a yellowed scroll from the air, as easily as if he were taking a book off of a shelf. "From the library," he explanied. He shook it out and it unraveled, revealing an inky image of Bellan.

He beckoned her forward, and she complied, hovering over his shoulder. The sight of the map made her dizzy. Bellan was so small, with so few places to hide...

"The Capital City would be no good," he said. "They know your face there." A red line slashed across the wide, sprawling city that spilled around the palace. "The farming lands are much too close." A similar line cut across the farmlands.

Soon, the map was decorated with red marks that laughed in Vivianne's face. The scroll looked as if it bled. Vivianne cringed away from the Kingdom that used to be her friend.

"I think," Gideon said, "you would be best suited here."

He waved his hand against the map. He had circled in black an area near the fringes of the forest. It was far from the Capital and very near to Yelice, bordered on one side by the Hisken Mountains.

"There is a small village here," he said. "Very small, five families at the most. They work in the mines." He pointed to the mountains. "They owe no allegiance to Bellan, nor to Yelice. They wouldn't turn you in, even if they suspected you were the Princess. If you go there, saying you were an orphan willing to work, I have no doubt that one of the families would take you in. If not..." He paused. "We'll find something else."

Vivianne frowned. So far away? The Capital was so beautiful, with hot summers and breezy winters, with little rain and much sun. The mountains would be cold and wet. Anywhere from her sister, though, and the guards' heavy crossbows, would be best.

"I can give you gold, food, and a better fitting saddle," Gideon said, looking at her horse with a vague trace of amusement. "But I am afraid that is all I can do for now."

Vivianne nodded.

"There is one more thing," he said. He reached into the air and pulled out a necklace. He dropped it around Vivianne's neck.

It was a heavy black stone, shining slightly, tied to a thin leather cord. She held it in one hand. A strange warmth poured from the stone, a warmth that almost seemed to be burning her hand. She dropped it, and it thudded against her chest.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice lilting in wonder.

"A necklace," Gideon said.

She looked at him. He laughed.

"It's a compass of sorts," he said. "You must whisper to it where you wish to go. As long as it is around your neck, you will feel a pull towards your destination. When you are close, it will cool down." He smiled. "It will keep you warm when you are cold, and it will cool you when you are hot. Until you get to the village, it is all I can offer you."

Vivianne smiled. It was a lovely gift. "How will you know if I reach the village?" she asked.

He tapped a white-haired temple with his gnarled finger. "I will know."

Viivanne laughed humorlessly to herself. "Right."

Gideon reached into the air once again, pulling out a sack of gold. "From the treasury. I'm sure your sister won't mind." He pressed it into her hands. "Keep it close."

Vivianne tucked it into her bodice. She remembered how envious she used to be of Margaret's slight, waif-like figure, and was thankful for once of her endowment. The gold was well disguised there, tucked against her chest.

"You may want to invest in a less gaudy wardrobe," Gideon suggested.

She looked down at her dress, with wide, spring green skirts and a beaded hem, and silently agreed.

Gideon gave her the saddle she often used at the palace. It wrapped around the horse snugly, and the stirrups were adjusted to fit her legs. He produced saddlebags of food and blankets. She tied them to the horse, who had been standing patiently to the side for quite some time, nipping at the plants that managed to grow under the pine.

She faced Gideon when she was done.

"Thank you," she said. And every fiber of her regretted the way she had treated him in the past. She hugged him, squeezing, and decided she would never let go.

Unfortunately, her resolve did not last long. He held her at an arm's length, looking at the princess that had grown from a toddler to a girl on his knee. "You must leave now," he said. "Before I am missed."

"You are already missed," Vivianne said. "I miss you."

Gideon smiled bitterly and climbed stiffly onto her father's horse. He steered it around and galloped away, leaving the map in her hands.

She allowed herself to weep as she mounted the horse, white as snow.

"I ought to name you that," she choked out. "Snow White."

She wiped her eyes. She promised herself that she wouldn't cry again, not for Margaret.

Vivianne reached for the necklace hanging around her neck. She looked at it, relishing the heat that leaked into her palm.

Feeling quite silly, she raised it to her mouth, whispering the name of the village.

"Dihsahn."

The necklace became heavier, pulling at her stubbornly. Something in her gut ached in the direction of the village, north and just a little bit west, more elevated than the shallow valley the forest rested in. She followed it, and with a tap to Snow White's ribs, she began her journey.

**A/N: This is a long one, isn't it? I hate to beg for reviews, but... if you're reading this, then tell me! Tell me everything! Tell me you loved it, tell me you hated it, tell me you clicked it and didn't find it very interesting so you decided to stop... but then tell me how to fix it. I'm trying to improve my writing, and it's hard without any advice!**


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